Bitter Eden

by Salvato, Sharon Anne

  "There's nothing to hide, Peter. Give me your hand," she said softly as she put her hand out to him. "I have washed you and cared for you. There is nothing on the outside that I don't know about. Don't hide from me."

  He took her hand without looking at her and brought it back against his chest. Callie sat on the edge of his bed as near to him as she could. Moving his hand slightly, she touched the brand. "Do you know what it stands for?"

  He turned away from her, roughly putting his hand back in place over it. Again his muscles drew up involuntarily, his stomach taut and hard and hurting. She was so full of softness and forgiveness. Would she

  remain so if she knew the brand was a symbol of truth now? What would she do if she knew about Walter Wheeler and John the Pocket? Would she then hate him as others did, as he sometimes did himself?

  "No, Peter, not what you think. Look at me." He couldn't do it. He was suffocating from the need to have her near, and terrified her nearness would somehow tell her of his own hideous depravity. Somehow she'd begin to sense what he was. He moaned with a physical ache as he thought of keeping her near only to watch her turn from him as everyone else did, or of putting her away from him now and never knowing her touch again. He was so tired he couldn't think any more.

  He closed his eyes, shivering as she ran her sweet-smelling hand down the side of his face. "Look at me, Peter," she repeated softly. As he turned, she smiled, and again it hurt him deep inside. "Mine," she said, again tracing the scar of the brand. "That's all it means now. Welcome home, Peter." Before he could move or react, she leaned down to kiss him. Peter lay still for a moment, his chest tight, unable to breathe. Then her lips touched his eyes, and he put his arm around her, sobbing. He tangled his fingers deep in her hair as again he smelled the fresh scents of the lemon and herbs she used. "Callie," he murmured over and over. "Touch me . . . just keep your hand on me," he breathed, his face rubbing against hers until he found her mouth. "You won't ever . . ."

  "HI never leave you. As long as we both live, you'll never be alone again," she whispered, then sat up, kissing him quickly. She looked down at the brand again, drawing his attention to it once more. He tightened, flinching away from her gaze. "No, Peter, don't," she said so softly he wasn't sure he heard. She traced the outline of the letter. "Now, my own, I want you to

  sleep, and get well. Soon it will be time for you to think of Jamie and your hop yards. There's a whole world waiting for you, Peter."

  He listened to her, and when he heard her words he wondered if perhaps there was such a thing as the world he 50 vaguely remembered and so poignantly distrusted. He watched her carefully as she stood, straightening her hair and dress.

  She gave him a look of dismay, smiling and shaking her head. "You have no faith, silly. I'm not going anywhere, m be right here," she said, sitting down and taking his hand again.

  Peter closed his eyes as she wanted him to, but he didn't sleep. He'd do nothing to displease her, nothing to make him lose the treasure of her hand in his, but as soon as he was sure she was no longer watching him, he opened his eyes, looking at her with naked longing. How he wanted the touch of her hand against his chest again, to feel her hand soothe his face, to feel her breath on him, to kiss her.

  To Peter a regulated day had no reality. He lived in a limbo where no new pains were inflicted on him except those of longing and the fear of loss, and unknowingly he put enormous demands on Callie. He had once thought, the first time he had been sent to the triangles, that he knew what it was to want to die. He hadn't known then, but he did know now. All that represented life to him was bound up in Callie and his fantasy of her. She was his door to living, and without her he knew he not only did not want to live, but would no longer know how. He began to exist in desperate fear of losing her. If she wasn't by his side when he was awake, he felt closed in and terrified. If he awoke from sleep and she was gone, he was certain she had only been a dream. He wanted her with him

  day and night. He longed for her touch with a passion that went far beyond the mere needs of sex. To him she had become life. She was the only person in whom he believed; where she was, he was safe.

  Callie responded to his need of her with amazing constancy. She was exhausted, but she refused to compromise or try in any way to lessen the time she spent with him. Though Stephen begged her to think of herself at least part of the time, he didn't pressure her, for he knew as well as she did why Peter clung to her. And Callie had slowly begun to learn certain ways of easing the pain and the nightmares that still racked him. In the middle of the night when he'd awaken the entire household with frightened, agonized screams of being closed in on the Rock and left alone, she had learned that all she need do was to move as close to him as she could, to warm his shivering cold body with hers, and slowly he'd awaken, understand where he was, and quiet again.

  Weeks went by, a month, then two. Stephen and Callie watched as his body began to heal. The fever was a thing of the past; the infected lacerations were healing; his general state of debilitation was abating. Daily they expected him to become restless and take up his old life again. That there were some problems, they understood. Peter was a wanted man and would remain so all of his life. Any man escaping from a British penal colony was under the death penalty. Should he ever be seen or sought by a British officer, he would be taken back to England and hanged, so they would always have to be careful. But Stephen felt that Peter was safe in Poughkeepsie, and he would do all the traveling so that Peter could remain in the background as much as he thought advisable. In a few years, Stephen was sure, it would all be forgotten.

  Peter listened to him and spoke agreement with whatever Stephen suggested, but the running of a brewery and a hop yard and a business were so far removed from Peter as to have no meaning. Stephen spoke in terms of years, while it required all of Peter s concentration and courage to live through hours.

  What Peter wanted was for everything to stop long enough for him to rest. He didn't want to "get on" with his life. He didn't yet know what his life was, and he was too tired and too frightened to challenge anything. He just wanted to stay where he was for a time. For the first time since his arrest, Peter felt safe and comforted in Callie's care. For these past few weeks there had been no decision to make or problem to face, no punishment to come from looking her or Stephen in the eye or from speaking to them without first being granted permission. These were the things neither Stephen nor Callie thought about or would ever truly understand; but for Peter, breaking down the fear of flogging and isolation in order to do the simple things the rest of the world took for granted was a monumental undertaking. Most of the time he felt too weak and too confused to try to be "normal."

  But Peter was aware that this interlude would have to end whether he was ready for it or not. It would last only as long as the healthy people accepted him as being ill. And when that time was over—and it was nearly so now—he would have to try to enter life as he had once known it. He saw it narrowly, as though there were only twaohoices; being what Stephen told him he should be, or going back to Van Diemen's Land. He never thought in terms of what he wanted, only in terms of what others might demand of him. He began to listen carefully to the noises of the household.

  Stephen was like a fresh spring colt, romping

  through the house with Jamie, teasing the servants, and playfully loving with Callie. But Peter was aware of more than that. Stephen was the central core around which the rest of the household moved. Mornings began when Stephen opened his eyes. The quiet broke as he strode from his room and then into Peter s room, tousled, hair wet from washing, and more often tlian not laughing as Callie ran behind, scolding his abominable habits.

  Peter waited this morning as he did every morning for Stephens appearance at the bedroom door.

  "Good morning!" Stephen said, and then with only a towel wrapped around his loins, he sat in the chair near his brothers bed and told him of what was to be done that day in the yard and the brewery, and at what point the
harvest was. Then he stood up, a smile on his face full of life and deviltry. He roared at Callie as he left the room, barely able to suppress his laughter. "Where'd you hide my shirt?"

  "In your drawer."

  "Not so!"

  "It is—have you looked?"

  "Drawer's empty!"

  He held the shirt behind his back as she ran up the stairs, then followed her down the hall putting it on. He laughed as she turned around, scowling and hitting him.

  Peter couldn't imagine being like that again. He could stay as he was, receptive and wanting, but to be able to sing and laugh as Stephen did for sheer good humor was something locked tight inside Peter. Van Diemen's Land was thousands of miles away, but it didn't matter because the prison was inside him, and that made everything else unimportant.

  As Peter continued to stay in his room upstairs, Cal-lie and Stephen worried, knowing that he didn't want to be well. "He can't lie up there tucked away from everything but us forever," Stephen said firmly one evening at dinner.

  Callie ate slowly. This was something she didn't like to talk about, because she didn't like thinking about it. There seemed to be no answer. She finally said, "He needs more time."

  "He's had time. It's only going to get worse the longer he puts it off. I'm going to tell him to come to dinner tomorrow."

  "And if he refuses?"

  "He won't refuse. Peter does what he is ordered. It is all that he does. God, Callie, he must have lived through hell, but if ordering him is the only way I have of bringing him back, I'll order him. I'll order him to laugh if I must."

  "Stephen, that's cruel!"

  "What choice have I got, Callie? Those scars he carries aren't only on the outside. What else can I do?"

  "I don't know, but ... oh, Stephen, he still has those awful nightmares. I know he has to get over them before he's better. I don't know what they mean exactly, but . . ."

  "I've heard him too. But it doesn't matter; he has to get up and begin to—unless he makes a future for himself, Callie, he's always going to be trapped by that past. He'll never forget them unless he begins living and has something new to replace those old memories. And it's time he saw Jamie."

  "He doesn't want to. It is the only thing he has expressed his own wishes about. He doesn't want to see him."

  "Peter doesn't want to do anything. That doesn't mean that's the way it should be."

  "Don't be angry with me. I'll take Jamie to see him tomorrow. Then you put off the dinner for a couple of days—all right?"

  "All right, but only if he sees Jamie tomorrow," Stephen said, still angry with her, partly because she was so willing to spend the days and half the nights with Peter, and partly because he wanted Peter well, and he would never be until he tried.

  The following morning Callie went to Peter after he had bathed to bring him his breakfast. "I want you to see Jamie today," she said as he finished eating.

  "No."

  "Peter, he's your son. He hasn't seen you since he was a baby. He needs you."

  Peter laughed bitterly, but said nothing.

  "Mary Anne will be bringing him here any minute now," she said firmly.

  When Mary Anne knocked, Callie went to the door without looking at Peter. Jamie stood waiting. She took his hand and brought him fully into the room.

  Peter stared at the child as he walked holding fast to Callie's hand. He was tall for his age and straight of body. He looked at Peter through eyes the same dark brown as his father's. His hair was like ripe wheat Tears formed in Peter's eyes as Jamie smiled. And Peter knew Jamie was his son, not Albert's.

  "That's Papa?" he asked, looking up to Callie.

  "That's your Papa. See what a fine handsome man you'll grow up to be?"

  "How do you do, sir?" Jamie asked as he climbed up on the bed with Peter, studying him with the minute attention of a five-year-old child.

  "Can you make things like Uncle Stephen can?"

  "What sort of things does Uncle Stephen make?"

  "Almost everything."

  Peter laughed. "I don't know if I can make everything, but perhaps something."

  "Well, that would do for a start. Could you make me a new caboose? Mary Anne stepped on mine and-"

  "Jamie! Enough of your nonsense. That's very rude to be asking for things."

  Jamie looked regretfully at Peter, but slid off the bed. Tm sorry, Papa."

  "Don't be sorry," Peter said softly as though he didn't want Callie to hear. Jamie started to leave. "Must you go so soon?" Peter asked.

  "Uncle Stephen is waiting for me. I can come back—if you want."

  Peter glanced uncertainly at Callie. She was smiling her approval to Jamie.

  "He looks just like you," she said in satisfaction as Jamie left; then she turned to Peter, frowning. "And he's just as naughty. I'll thank you not to encourage him to be asking for everything he fancies."

  "Is it so wrong to want things?"

  "No, but—no, it isn't wrong, Peter, but Jamie has to be taught to value things of value, and not yearn for the worthless."

  Peter stared down at his hands, wondering how anyone knew something of value when it came. So many times he thought he had, and never had it been real.

  "Stephen wants you to come to dinner tomorrow night. I'll have your clothes laid out for you. We eat at six," she said and stood up.

  Peter wasn't listening to her. His eyes were studiously cast down, and his breathing was rapid and shallow. Finally he spoke, his voice tight. "You're angry with Jamie."

  "No, I'm not angry . . "

  "Will you punish him?"

  Callie looked indignant for a moment; then she

  went quickly to the bed. "He's already been punished and forgiven/' She took Peter's hand. "I'm sorry, Peter, I keep forgetting that I don't always see things as you do. Jamie has never been harmed in any way. We have no need for switches or paddles, and never will. If you are concerned about your son, the best thing you can do for him is to get well and teach him the things you believe in. I told you Jamie had to leam to recognize value. He will find it in you, if you allow him."

  Peter came down to dinner the next night, feeling awkward and self-conscious in the clothes he hadn't worn for so long. They were crisp and fresh, clean and distinguished looking, but they covered a man who was none of these things. He sat nervously at the head seat Stephen had vacated when Peter entered the room. He was unsure as he tried to recall the intricacies of table manners long unused. He almost laughed trying to think when he had last "used a fork, or when he had been allowed so close to such a weapon as a table knife.

  He had difficulty eating, he was so tight and apprehensive. Nothing was the same here as it was in the warm little world of the sickroom. Callie was bright and cheerful, laughing and talking of people and hops and her dairy in a way that invited crisp, easy repartee. Stephen responded as he always did. But Peter, as he had realized while he lay in bed listening to that outside world go on, could not. He was silent throughout the meal, speaking only if addressed directly.

  After supper he went upstairs. He stood in the hall for several minutes, wanting to enter his son's room as he heard sounds of childish laughter and questions. He went several steps in the direction of his own room, then turned back and entered Jamie's nursery.

  He watched quietly as Mary Anne gave the little boy his bath and prepared him for bed.

  "Why don't you talk much, Papa?" Jamie asked as he got into bed.

  Peter smiled, shrugging. "I haven't much to say, I guess."

  "How'd you get those scars on your hands?"

  Peter's stomach tightened as Mary Anne stared at his hands along with Jamie. "Felling trees," he said.

  "You felled trees?"

  "Yes."

  Tell me . . ."

  Peter glanced at Mary Anne's disapproving face and saw what neither Callie or Stephen would ever understand. Mary Anne didn't see Peter Berean when she looked at him; she saw the convict, and only a man like Peter could recognize that look. He st
epped back nearer the door and spoke softly, "In the morning. You come wake me up."

  "But Callie makes me go to lessons," he groaned. Then: "I'll come before school."

  Peter nodded, hesitated, then quickly reached out, tousling Jamie's hair.

  Peter's early mornings with Jamie became a habit. Those hours were the heart of his days, holding no threat or barrier of fear that he couldn't overcome. Beyond that nothing was easy for him.

  The more he tried to please Callie and Stephen, the more they demanded of him, accepting each new thing as a sign of progress, never knowing that it took Peter half a sleepless night to calm himself enough to even try to do as they asked. Stephen tried to tempt him with books from the library in his study. Callie asked his assistance with small chores around the house. These things he could accomplish. He was used to working, but what was impossible for him was the

  lighthearted conversation, the laughter, the ideas they expected from him. Those things were too bottled up inside, driven too far by fear for him to retrieve. Once more the hard-learned habits of protection slipped back into place. He couldn't accept normal anger or irritation without reacting to the threat it implied. Refusal translated itself into disapproval and deprivation. No matter how hard or often he reasoned through the range of emotions that occurred in any given day, he couldn't break away from the constant expectation of punishment.

  In his room was a mass of small items he had stolen from all over the house. Mostly they were worthless little things—pencils, quill pens, handkerchiefs, nap^-kins, silverware. In one of Callie's large butter molds he kept food he pilfered from the pantry. He had not known a hungry day since his return home, but the dread of that day lingered. Each time the food in the butter mold spoiled he threw it out, replacing it immediately.

  One afternoon, months after he had come home, Peter looked at the spoiled food in the butter mold. He didn't need it. He knew he didn't need it As Callie had told him repeatedly, he was home and safe.